


One Good Turn Deserves Another

by Daughter_of_Thranduil



Series: One Good Turn [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Assault, Christmas fic, Enjolras is mugged, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 02:43:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16338290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_Thranduil/pseuds/Daughter_of_Thranduil
Summary: Enjolras finds a previous kindness returned.





	One Good Turn Deserves Another

Paris, December 1830

The Musain was very busy that evening. With the Yule season approaching, the students of the city had turned in their final compositions, the workmen's loads were beginning to lighten and, with the light scattering of snow which had so artistically dusted the cobbles and the rooftops, the general atmosphere of the city had seen a significant improvement.

As was their wont, the friends of the ABC had gathered to have their own Christmas celebration together in the back room of the café, before those of them with families departed to spend the festive season at home. They had spent the night engaging in light hearted debates and good-natured arguments; they had roared with laughter at Courfeyrac's saucy anecdotes, rolled their eyes at Grantaire's dreadful puns, teased Prouvaire about his hideous waistcoat and had had a thoroughly good evening together.

As midnight came and went the nine companions drained their final drinks and began to prepare to depart; looking for hats, wrapping scarves around their necks and buttoning up their coats.

"Julien, are you coming?" Combeferre asked, looking over to where Enjolras was engaged in an animated debate with Feuilly, while he and a tipsy Prouvaire helped a thoroughly inebriated Courfeyrac into his coat. Courfeyrac and Prouvaire shared rooms in the same building as Combeferre and Enjolras, so the four generally came and went together at such occasions as these.

Enjolras, sober as a judge, shook his head in wry amusement as Courfeyrac, who had an enormous grin splitting his face in half, swayed on unsteady legs while Prouvaire tried to support him. The young blond man then turned his attention to Combeferre. "No, you go on ahead, Etienne," he replied. "I shan't be long. I'll follow when Jacques and I are finished. I will likely catch you up anyway – you won't be able to walk very fast with Jerôme in that state, I dare say!"

"True enough," Combeferre conceded with a chuckle. "All right, I'll see you when you get home. Jerôme, come on mon ami, it's time we got you to bed!"

"A merry festive season to you all, brothers!" Courfeyrac cried in farewell as Combeferre and Prouvaire took an arm each and led him out of the door. "Peace on earth and sore heads to all men!"

Joly and Bossuet were the next to leave, wishing the others the best of health over Christmas before stepping out into the snow. Bahorel went next, taking with him Grantaire – who was in a similar state to Courfeyrac – to ensure that the group sceptic got home safely.

Enjolras and Feuilly's conversation – a discussion on the journalism of Camille Desmoulins – lasted far longer than either had expected, and the Musain was closing by the time it had come to an end. Thus finished, the two young men shook hands, exchanged mutual wishes of good health and good spirits for Christmas, before exiting the café and striding off in opposite directions. Feuilly, a fan maker, lived in a much poorer part of the city than the wealthy Enjolras.

Enjolras buttoned his coat up around his neck against the chill of the snow, which had started to fall again. The streets looked almost idyllic; like something from a childhood story. Looking at a scene such as this, it was difficult to remember the injustice, the poverty and the misery which was so overwhelmingly present in Paris these days.

Unless one was Enjolras of course! His deeply political mind was seldom free of thoughts of such a kind. Indeed, he was so caught up in the thought of the city’s poor suffering in the chill, that he did not hear the sudden hurried footsteps which sounded behind him as he reached the corner of the street. He was brought harshly back to reality by a sudden savage blow to the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

As Enjolras hit the ground, grazing both his hands on the icy cobbles, he swore angrily in pain; unsure for a moment had happened. Then, as a hard kick was aimed at his stomach, everything became suddenly and painfully clear.

Curling in on himself with a groan of pain, Enjolras struggled to find his balance and tried to get up, but he was forced back onto the snowy pavement with another kick.

"Bloody rich boy!" a voice above him snarled. "Empty his pockets, Pierre!"

"Where did he get his fine clothes from, eh?” spat another. "Off the backs of men like us? I hate posh little rich bastards like him! I'll enjoy this all the more! Search him! Bet he's got plenty on him!"

Enjolras was flipped over onto his back and he had the vague impression of a fist flying towards his face before the world went black.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Henriette pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, though she left her bust on show, as the snow began to fall. She hoped she had a bit of success soon – she'd freeze if she was out here all night!

Mind you, business should be picking up soon, the cafés were due to close in a few minutes, which should bring a stream of men into the streets. The weekend before Christmas was always a prosperous one for people like her; dozens of men got drunk and sentimental enough to be charmed by a pretty face and could be persuaded to fritter their money away.

There had been a few go past her tonight already. She had been walking up and down the Rue de Calais when three young men had gone past, two of them supporting the third, clearly very drunk, between them. They were all, she thought, in their early twenties and all three were well dressed. She supposed they must be students.

When the drunk one – a handsome young man with black hair – saw her, he grinned saucily and stumbled towards her, breaking away from the other two. "Fair mademoiselle," he cried happily, sinking to his knees before her. "Take pity on a lonely man like me, and give me a merry Christmas! I shall love you forever!"

The other two young men, one pale and fair-haired, the other with chocolate coloured curls and spectacles, both looked heartily embarrassed. They hastened to pull their friend away from where he knelt before her, his hands resting on her waist.

" _Pardon, Mademoiselle!”_ said the one with the spectacles apologetically. "Our friend here has had one too many tonight! He means no harm!”

"Come on, Jerôme!" said the fair-haired one, helping the drunk one back up to his feet. "Leave the poor woman alone! Time to go home! Sorry, mademoiselle."

"It's all right," Henriette laughed, stooping to plant a kiss on the drunk man's smiling mouth. "Happy Yuletide, handsome! Now let your friends take you home!"

The three men started off down the street once more and Henriette continued to laugh as she watched the dark haired one stumble and slip thanks to the combination of icy cobbles and drunk legs. Pity they hadn't stopped...it was always nicer to get a handsome man and all three would have equated to full night’s work.

When they had vanished from sight, Hentriette walked in the other direction, turning the corner and meaning to make for the Café Musain. The landlord there was a decent man; he might let her sit by his fire for a quarter of an hour or so now that his customers would be gone.

Her attention was suddenly drawn by cries at the opposite end of the street. Four men were in the process of beating a fifth, who was lying on the cobbles. She recognised them as the Dupont gang; they had been responsible for dozens of robberies in the streets over the past month, and they had assaulted Suzanne – one of the other brothel girls – a week ago, the bastards!

Henriette hurried down the street towards them, hoping beyond hope that there was a gendarme nearby. When she got within ten yards, she opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Bloody hell! Get out of here boys! That'll bring every gendarme in a mile!"

"Bitch! You'll pay for that!" Knowing that they were wanted men, the gang did not stay around to see if a gendarme did appear. They were too eager to protect their own skins, and dashed off, sure of finding prey in another street.

Henriette knelt beside the man they had been beating, and swore fluently as she recognised him. " _Saint Michel!"_ She had met the golden-haired young man several months before when, having been assaulted by a pimp for straying onto another woman's patch, the handsome student had found her crying in the street and offered to take her home with him. Entranced by his good looks, she had agreed, and when they got back to his rooms, she had promptly started to strip.

Horrified, he had stopped her and, instead of demanding sexual favours, he had given her an impassioned speech on the injustice of which she was so blatantly a victim, speaking of the new dawn which must soon arrive, and had, in addition to a bed for the night – which he had not wanted to share – he had given her almost three times what she usually earned from an encounter. A girl did not forget men like that!

His forehead was bleeding. Henriette swept his blond hair back out of his face and surveyed him anxiously. They had given him quite a thumping. In addition to that, he must be close to freezing, lying there in the snow.

"Monsieur! Monsieur Enjolras!" she called urgently, shaking him gently. He opened his eyes and stared at her groggily, clearly very disorientated. He did not look capable of getting home on his own. "Come on, _Saint Michel,_ it's time I returned your favour."

As she went to pull the blond man up, she noticed with satisfaction that the Dupont lot had dropped the watch they had been wrenching out of his waistcoat pockets when she had screamed. There was also a small pouch full of money. Henriette felt in the prone man's pockets to find that there was already a small purse there. Her face broke into an ecstatic grin, and she stuffed the purse down her bodice. It looked like her earnings were on the Dupont gang tonight! The stupid bastard must have dropped his own money in his eagerness to attack the poor student!

She restored the watch to the pocket it had come from and then set about hauling the blond to his feet. Luckily he was very slim and did not weigh very much. She draped his right arm around her shoulders, doing her best to support him, and began to make her way back to the brothel; the groggy young man stumbling beside her.

The journey was much slower than usual, but she got to the brothel eventually. It was a well-situated house with a pleasing aspect, designed to cater to a reasonably wealthy clientele. Madame chose her girls carefully – taking only the prettiest and those with the best figures to appeal to men with money to waste, though she cast them out ruthlessly when they lost their looks or found themselves with child. Henriette let herself in and, as she stepped though the door way, she came face to face with Marie, who clearly was in the process of heading out to find another man.

"Jesus, Henriette, that one can barely stand!" Marie laughed heartily when she looked at the slumping man with his arm draped over her friend's shoulder. She had not noticed the blood on his face, obscured as it was by the blond hair hanging in his face, and had mistaken him for a drunk. "I don't think he's going to be able to rise to the occasion tonight!"

"Oh, he couldn't keep his hands to himself all the way home," Henriette lied airily, worried that if Madame heard she had brought home a man who was not up to the task, she might turf him out. "He'll perk up as soon as I get him some water! Come on then handsome, let's get you inside."

With difficulty, she got the young man up the stairs and into a room, where she promptly locked the door behind them and deposited him on the bed. She set about taking off his waistcoat and shirt to check if they had damaged his ribs. They were showing the signs of being viciously bruised, but when she skirted her hands over them, she could not feel any major damage.

Enjolras groaned in pain as she touched one particular spot, and rolled over onto his side, curling in on himself, still too groggy and stunned to be aware of his surroundings. Henriette realised he needed rest to come to his senses, and hurried to remove his boots before washing the blood and dirt from his face and tugging the covers up over him. In minutes, he was dead to the world.

Henriette yawned loudly. Sleep did sound very attractive right now; the warmth of the room enveloping her as it was. (Madame insisted on having a good fire in the bedrooms. Ensuring clients had an enjoyable experience generally led to their coming back again. They did s good trade in wealthy merchants.) Briefly, she wondered if she should get in beside him, but upon recollection of how shy and uncomfortable he had been at their previous encounter, when she had mistaken his intentions, she felt that this would be too much like taking advantage.

Grabbing a pillow from the bed, Henriette stripped to her underclothes and settled down on the floor in front of the fire. It was not long before she followed her unexpected guest into slumber.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

It was early morning when Enjolras woke. For a full minute, all he could register was the incredible pain in his head and wondered confusedly if he had overindulged the night before.

No, that couldn't be right. He had hardly dr nk at all! It had been Courfeyrac and Grantaire who had been the worse for drink last night. He had been perfectly sober when he had started the walk home...

The robbers!

He remembered now – he had been set upon in the street by a group of men. One of them had punched him in the face, smacking his head back against the cobblestones. That explained the pain in his head! But he still couldn't remember getting home.

Gingerly, Enjolras opened his eyes and, with a start, found himself in an unfamiliar room. The bed was a comfortable one, though the coverings were a little garish for his taste. He wasn't used to the feel of silk against his skin.

His skin.

Enjolras's heart began to hammer as he realised he was half naked. He sat up in a hurry, and immediately regretted it, groaning loudly as he clutched his ribs.

The noise woke the room's other occupant; a young woman with dark, curly hair dressed in only her undergarments got up from the floor in front of the fire. She smiled brightly when she set eyes on him. "Ah, you're awake!" she said. "How do you feel?"

Enjolras, face flaming, hurriedly averted his eyes – her bodice really wasn't leaving very much to the imagination. He recognised her of course. She was Henriette – the prostitute he had encountered a few months ago. What the hell was he doing... _with most of his clothes off_...in her bed?

~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Henriette fought the urge to laugh as she saw the look of utter panic cross Enjolras's face.

"Don't worry, _Saint Michel!”_ she said teasingly. "I didn't steal your virtue! You got in the way of the Dupont gang last night. They tried to empty your pockets!"

"How do you..." Enjolras began, face still scarlet. "It was you who screamed!"

"Yes," Henriette nodded, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, noticing his blush darken. She made sure not to lean too far forward. "The bastards valued their own skins too much to stay – they ran for it. Luckily, they dropped your watch. I put it back in your waistcoat pocket.

"I am very grateful," Enjolras said, evidently uncomfortable at her proximity, especially with so much of her chest on show. "Citizeness, where are we? Is this your..."

"My brothel Monsieur?" Henriette supplied with a laugh. She was far more confident than she had been at their last encounter – they were in her territory now, and he was the outsider. "Yes, it is. You were in no fit state to be left alone. I brought you here so I could clean you up."

"Thank you, Citizeness," Enjolras said sincerely. "It was kind of you.

"It was the least I could do," Henriette smiled. "After what you did for me. One good turn deserves another, Monseiur, as they say! I think you should get someone to look at your ribs though, they took a fair beating, and I am no expert in medical matters."

"That is not a difficulty – A close friend of mine is studying to be a doctor. I will have him look at them when I get back to our rooms. Speaking of which, he will be wondering where I am!" Enjolras said hurriedly, trying to get out of bed and clutching his ribs with a guttural groan of pain.

"I'll fetch him, Monsieur," Henriette said briskly, gathering up her clothes and dressing efficiently. "I think you might need a bit of help getting home. Never fear, I remember where your rooms are. I don't meet men like you every day!"

"Wait!" Enjolras leaned out of the bed with a wince and fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. He brought out his money purse. "Take this..." He began to take out some coins.

"No," Henriette said firmly. "I don't want your money, Monsieur! That isn't why I did this. Like I say, one good turn deserves another, and you showed kindness to me once before. Lie still, and I will fetch your friend. I will lock the door behind me, if someone knocks, just stay quiet."

O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

"Well, Enjolras, I never thought I'd see the day I needed to fetch _you_ out of a whore house!" Combeferre chuckled mildly as he helped his friend walk down the street about forty minutes later.

"Combeferre...do not rub it in! It is embarrassing enough!" Enjolras said, groaning as he walked as gingerly as he could.

"It was kind of her to take you back there," Combeferre said seriously. "She has proved what we have been saying for months. That there is goodness, and nobleness in all vestiges of society."

"Indeed there is," Enjolras said tightly, his face strained with pain.

"Though it does prove rather contrary to my mantra; the good must be innocent," Combeferre said with a twinkle in his eye. "What will the others say when I tell them that to help you home from a brothel because you could barely walk?"

"You're not going to tell them?" Enjolras stopped in his tracks, looking absolutely mortified.

"No, mon ami," Combeferre grinned. "I would not be that cruel! Courfeyrac would never let you hear the end of it! Let's chalk this one up to adventure, Julien, and get you home."


End file.
